Books are people.
What appears to be but simple pages,
Are pieces of what was once alive:
Yellow and wrinkled and ripped and crisp.
Pieces of love and hatred and strife.
Words are not inked but written in blood,
The life source of all spirited things,
Strung together in chaotic sequence
Painting pictures of emotions that could never be understood.
The cataclysmic leather binding
That’s wound and wound and wound
With force much greater than earthly power
Holds together simple frames of dust and time.
Age seeps in like a watery fiend
Marring the ink and swelling the pages
Making the binding to slacken then crumble
Twisting the tales of love and conquest.
The story lives on – ageless and enchanting
Neither in pages nor in dust
But in words, a memory, a wrinkle in time.
The part that is written never fades.
No life lives all to itself.
None to each his own.
A pebble, a ripple, can become a wave
Changing the face of time.
Life is chaos – beautifully flawed.
Imperfect, unhappy, joyful, bittersweet.
Not every fairy-tale ends with a smile,
But every wide road has a narrow turn.
People are books.